Il a Existé
by Ghirardelli
Summary: Her name is Christine. Her voice is without compare. Every night, she finds herself in the presence of an Angel within her walls. She is perfect… who cares if it’s 2006 and her last name is Tanaré? Formerly called Only the Fairytale...
1. Premier Chapitre

**Disclaimer: I own none of PotO, only my modern-day take on it. The songs belong to my friend.**

**My friends, hello! I seemed to have jumped on the fandom bandwagon a little late, but I am here all the same, with my first fanfiction. This little piece was begun with my friend, who writes ALL the songs used (unless otherwise specified) and, oh, if only you could hear them! I wish I could do them justice. The first four chapters are finished, since we wrote them together, but then we stopped to work on our own respective novels… but I was attacked by a plotbunny and returned to this one. If it's utter crap after chapter four, I am to blame. **

**But there's a way to solve that, you know: reviews! Yes, constructive criticism is the best, and I hope to get better. I know already that some of you might complain later in this story, simply because…**

**It's based on Leroux.**

**Yes, there's more to PotO than a musical. Part of the reason for posting this was a response to all the ALW Movie-based badphics I see on this website. It has disgusted me and so now I'm giving fanwriting a try; hopefully I won't end up like the very people I'm criticizing (which is why reviews help, y'see). **

**Please excuse any inaccuracies; everything is based on memory and memories blur with the passing days.**

**And without further ado…**

**-----------------------**

Roch Robert de Chagny was a patient man, usually. However, with only twenty-five minutes to go before a recital began—which he had to go to for his brother's work—and with his girlfriend making him wait an hour in the living room of the suite they shared, dripping from the rain outside, his serene endurance was beginning to dwindle. Several of Carla's new shopping-friends-turned-entourage passed him, looking at him appraisingly and smiling as he sat there.

"Aren't you ready yet?" He called up the stairs of the suite, checking his gold-plated watch. _Good thing it didn't get wet…_

His darling's head popped out of her door, carefully concealing anything below the neck behind the door. "Yes, just a minute!"

And with that, he returned to his pacing. For not the first time, he wondered why Philippe couldn't go, instead. The man had enough money to come over and go scouting. Then again, he needed to stay at the office: stocks were dropping, though he swore not to tell Carla. The American public needed a new face and Philippe decided a new "belle française" would be perfect; specifically, if that new someone was not another Celine Dion or Avril Lavigne.

After all, they wanted to salvage _pride_.

The company needed it, which meant Roch and Philippe needed it even more; if that meant going to a church benefits in all of France, then so be it.

An added plus was that Carla would enjoy it – perhaps, then, he would get to enjoy the night, too.

And, so he stood, sopping wet in their suite after a day of sightseeing, waiting to go to a performance in the Basilisque du Sacré-Coeur atop MontMartre. It was by a stroke of luck that Roch had come across it, and he liked it the more he thought about it. It wouldn't be as crowded with scouts or full of vocally trained musicians as a concert at Sorbonne, but a street performer or chorus girl would be more likely to agree to whatever they had planned than a confident student with a diploma. Whoever was chosen in the next few weeks would be the protagonist in the music world's newest underdog story. And, if Roch found no one, he could tell Philippe that he tried his darnedest and enjoy the rest of his much-deserved vacation. Maybe he would travel to Avignon next—now _that_ was a musical city. Caught in his musings, he barely realized Carla gracefully stepping down the steps in her most elaborate dress while holding a handbag.

"Well?" Her posture seemed to ask, subtly drawing her arms away from the dress, which (for lack of anything else to say) took advantage of her private tailor. She stood out in a simple black evening gown, accented by a red ribbon tied below her chest and then several more behind each shoulder that gave the appearance that her crimson hair was streaming behind her. Carla was surely a goddess when it came to clothes and accessorizing, for her hair flowed seamlessly with the silk ribbons. Her designs had a touch meant to be invisible, except to give it a flair no other woman could pull off. Even so, once Roch could focus on her face, her lips grinned and announced at his approving gaze, "Let's go."

"You do realize it's raining, right?"

"Didn't you bring an umbrella?"

He decided not to point out that he was dripping all over her linoleum. "Well, _non_, not exactly."

She pouted a little, as she stepped from the front step. "Well, I suppose I'll have to get one of my own."

"At least we'll get to share one this way?" He teased her good-naturedly.

"Yes, at least." Carla answered, tongue-in-cheek. "Would you be so kind, Roch, as to get it from my room?"

His eyes twinkled mischievously. "From your room?"

"I left it on my bed."

"Hm," Roch gave this deliberate consideration before spinning her around. "Well, mademoiselle, if I didn't know that you have been looking forward to some live music, I'd think you'd have an ulterior motive in mind."

She only laughed at this, "Would you? Well, we can discuss this 'ulterior motive' when we get back. My umbrella, please."

After setting her down, he gave an elaborate bow. "As my lady wishes."

She was still smiling as he hurried upstairs. He was such a boy at times, always teasing her. Carla liked that—as a celebrated singer and girlfriend to her manager's brother, no one else ever dared to be so playful.

Still, she wished he would hurry up. She adjusted her gloves and calculated the time in her head. What was he doing up there? _He better not think I'm following him up in these high heels._ "Roch, we have twenty minutes!"

"Right, right, right." He hurried down with her umbrella, taking the steps two at a time. "You sure this concert is that important?"

"Of course, it is." She smiled lightheartedly. "After all, one must get a feel for the competition!"

With that, she stepped out and toward the exit of the hotel with the umbrella resting lightly on her shoulder; her back turned at the moment Roch's face broke into a grimace as the innocent irony of her statement was not lost on him. _Curse you, Phil…_ However, he only replied, "Very well, let us go and get soaked… I mean, listen to music."

"We won't get soaked." Carla answered with the utmost confidence.

He only looked at the petite umbrella and shrugged, "If you say so. Come, I have the taxi waiting."

They hurried down the hallway, out of the glass doors, under the umbrella, and to the taxi Roch had just called. Much to Roch's dismay, he was only able to stay half under the umbrella. Not that that mattered, especially since she got in before he did, taking the white canopy on a stick with her. Luckily, he had many tuxes at home, even though it meant he would be very uncomfortable—not to mention squeaky—for the entirety of the concert.

Carla sat with him in the back, adjusting her gloves idly and feeling all around like princess, while Roch desperately tried to tell their driver just how fast they needed to find MontMartre and no, they were not riding the funicular, so they needed to find an alternative route. Annoyed at the low visibility, milling tourists, and his cargo's empty death threats, the driver asked sarcastically if Roch knew a better way. The boy knew he had made a mistake the moment he tried. He ended up forcing the taxi to travel in circles while he prayed Carla wouldn't notice or miraculously pick up French, before they slowly began their ascent past the hurrying artists and waiters. It seemed like an eternity before they were parked in front of the basilica in all of its domed glory. Roch paid their irate driver with a handful of 20-euro bills, figuring the poor man deserved it, as he was to drive them home two hours later.

Several people of the district had enough foresight to arrive early and take shelter in the musical warm-ups. Regardless, the two Americans were still able to enter, only two minutes late: one serene and the other soaked to the bone. It felt like it had been forever and a day since Roch had returned to his homeland and even longer since he had practiced his religion, but he still wet his fingers even more in the basin so he could cross himself.

The lights had already dimmed by the time he and Carla were ushered into the nearest pew. The audience clapped politely as the Master of Ceremonies thanked them for coming this evening. As it turned out, it didn't matter that they had been seated in the back. The dais had been raised high enough that all had a nice view of the proceedings, though, soon enough, Roch lost interest in _that_ entirely.

It started out innocently enough. After careful examination of the program during the welcome speech (which she couldn't understand), Carla began betting who would triumph and who would merely be a disgrace to the kingdom of music. Though it distracted Roch from choosing potential vocalists to bear the D.C. name, he joined in gamely. Next, Carla—again, being from les États-Unis and knowing only a little French—took far too much pleasure in trying to pronounce the foreign names. The night continued on and they became increasingly drunk on each other's delight, and playful giggling became light kisses and then into more serious, passionate ones.

They ignored a promising rendition of "Petit Enfant," as well as a few Catholic hymnals in difficult Latin. Ballads added to the background as he focused his attentions on the stunning girl before him. Clapping was soon beyond him, as he soon couldn't tell one note from the others.

He was careful not to ruin her make-up or her hair. That was one thing he had learned over the years of knowing her – Don't Touch the Hair. The ribbons on her shoulders, however, were delightful—like a Superman's cape he could string his fingers through. She returned the favor, though less careful with her hands, successfully mussing his ponytail.

Not that he minded, of course.

Though he was a bit disappointed when she pulled her tongue out of his mouth to look out at the utter silence, and even more so when she seemed disinclined to just catch her breath and return to her ministrations. It took him a while to figure out why, too.

A thin young woman, who looked like she'd just been pulled on stage against her will, was quietly speaking to the pianist. The audience was a confused as he, as he slowly stepped away from the instrument and off-stage. Onstage and now alone, she looked even more frightened as she stubbornly sat down in front of the ebony and ivory keys, and slowly began tinkling out a melody.

It was certainly not the "_Kyrie"_ that the program had promised.

"Summon to thee," she began slowly and in English, though everyone there had had enough of an education to understand, even the littlest ones. "My heart and my desire."

"Qu'est-ce qu'elle fait?" the audience began to whisper, just as Carla leaned toward him and asked, "Who is she? What's she doing?"

"Beg me to come with open arms…"

No, this certainly wasn't a song that belonged in such an event. Roch looked at the program, searching for the name in order to answer Carla. "Christine Tanaré." Though Carla nodded at this information and went back to watching the girl sing, Roch took a double take. _Surely not…_

"…To hold until your soul catches fire.

Never again will you, lonely, cry.

Angels shall sing, when we are one, forever,

And our music graces Heaven high!"

Her eyes closed, her growing confident hands flew across the piano keys as she vocalized. She was bliss incarnate as her notes enveloped the hall, her passion and her dreams and her love evident to anyone and everyone who would open themselves up to them. The world was at her feet, enraptured, though she cared only for the vibrations and quarter notes passing through her silver throat.

"If you should find you cannot fight your fears,

Summon me now, to call you back again.

Together, we shall dry your tears,

So you might live once more.

Angels must sometimes fold their wings

And drift to Earth to die…"

She almost stopped there, as if some unknown emotion shuddered through her. Her eyes shut swiftly before she looked back up the audience, unseeing and misty-eyed with passionate tears.

"But I shall lift you up again," she smiled lightly, hopefully, "and teach you how to fly!" Her lilting voice resonated through the auditorium as her song ended, her last note echoing still when her hands rested on the piano, exhaustedly.

She stood to silence. She bowed and curtsied, as all performers were to do, looking resigned and almost apologetic before turning to leave the stage. Though miserable, she seemed ready to get it done and disappear into the anonymity of the impromptu backstage. Then…

One clap,

Another…

And another…

Soon, the Parisians were on their feet, shell-shocked, but giving a thunderous standing ovation to her hidden genius. Those who didn't know her wondered at the misprint; those who did wondered why she hid that voice or that talent, for they knew they had never heard her sing like that, and they had never, in their lives, heard such a song. It was original, and they wondered what had prompted her.

As for Christine, she was frozen on the spot. Tears poured down her face as she looked passed the blinding stage lights. She sobbed with the largest grin on her face, her entire body shaking with the intensity of her own shock, excitement, and exhaustion. They had noticed her! She held her head in reverence, whispering "J'appelle à vous!" to something unseen, even by her. Christine was led offstage before her mascara began to run, and even still, she wept and laughed giddily. She was seated on a chair while other girls ran to get her tissues, and others still congratulated, complimented, and questioned her. She could only nod numbly, running off adrenaline and her musical high.

The rest of the program passed like a blur for both Christine and Roch, who, still in his back pew with Carla, couldn't wait to until it was over and ask her himself what had happened. He started to fidget in his chair, something he never did (De Chagny's do _not_ fidget), in his impatience.

Carla took notice, and, though curious, tactfully said nothing. She would find out soon, though she already had a sneaking suspicion of what was going on. There was a gleam of recognition in his eye at that name: Tanaré. Roch had tried to cover it up and tried to act natural for the hour following the girl's performance, but he was a poor actor. Still, she trusted her lover, and patiently waited for the benefit to end.

A priest ended the ceremony on a prayer, praising the young adults for coming and baring their souls in song, as well as asking God (and their audience) to not forget the church in her monetary crisis and to bless her people in the days forthcoming—and with the rain tonight, they might need it on the drive home. "Amens" and crosses rustled through the crowd.

No one seemed too ready to go back out into the rain; everybody instead went to the stage to meet and greet the delighted performers. Flowers were given by rightfully proud parents as paramours presented roses. The mood was light and infectious, and the couple separated to meet and mingle. Carla knew enough French to pass by, so she went to congratulate the singers she thought were acceptable before she had been otherwise preoccupied.

Roch, however, went straight for the mysterious blonde Tanaré. She wasn't as noticeable as she had been with the lights shining down on her face, so there wasn't much of a crowd surrounding her, only a few young adults.

"Merci, merci," she was saying, her voice barely above a whisper. Christine was sitting exhaustedly, looking up at two of them as a girl spoke about how the song touched her so. She smiled, though she looked like she was ready to faint in her chair.

"Did you write that song?" One eagerly asked. "I've never heard it before."

She hesitated, looking flustered. "I… Well, a… maestro of mine wrote it, long ago. It seemed appropriate to put words to it… I mean…"

"You made that entire song up within seconds?"

A few stammers and beginnings of half-answers hardly satisfied them, so one piped up that it was "her secret," with a conspiratorial wink and Christine eagerly agreed. After a few minutes of idle chatter—through which Roch quietly sat through behind them—the group excused themselves, saying that they were off to the discotheque and offered an invitation, which she refused. They moved off, leaving her alone so Roch could approach her. Other people were leaving and he had hoped to talk with her for a few minutes before Carla found him again. Christine looked up expectantly at him and his obvious unease. He kneeled down to be face-level with her, and she smiled gently in confusion.

"Pardon me, monsieur," she asked him, while searching his face, "But do I know you?"

"Mademoiselle," he began, readying himself with a deep inhale. "You must remember me. It is I, the little boy who rescued your red scarf from the pool!"

She stared at him for what seemed like forever, though Roch knew it could only be for a few moments… and then, she laughed.


	2. Deuxième Chapitre

**Thank you very much to all my reviewers. Don't be strangers!**

**I would like to inform you that this story will be updated slowly, as I am a full time student. I apologize. I also wanted to inform you that, while it is based mostly on Leroux, there will be small bits of Kay and ALW (though NOT THE MOVIE) in this story, as you will probably see in this chapter. I know I said I was basing it on Leroux (trust me, it will be), but this was done delibrately by one of my characters, as he has an odd sense of humor. Oh, I can't wait until you see it.**

**Now, on with the story:**

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Parisian weather, much like most of Europe's, seemed to be unpredictable. Carla realized this the day after the concert: gale-force winds and full lakes falling from the heavens one night, yet not a trace of humidity the next day. Though it was still cold, the sky was blue and most of the clouds were gone. So unpredictable…

Roch told her not to go alone. It took all of her feminine wiles and an unexpected call from Philippe to escape; though she now wished he was there. Walking through the Champs-Élysées, all she saw were the amorous French couples, giggling and kissing at every chance. Carla was the outcast, the lone miserable American tourist.

She turned and ran, losing herself in her thoughts once more.

_"Roch-Robbie!" the Parisian songbird cried happily, eagerly kissing him on both cheeks before hugging him tight. Then, in her native tongue, "Combien de temps as-tu été ici?"_

_He was about to return something when Carla walked up to them. As was his custom, he stood and Christine Tanaré followed him up, leaning heavily against him in her exhaustion. "Tu parles anglais?" She questioned Christine._

_"Oh! Yes." _

_"Christine, this is Carla. Carla, meet mademoiselle Tanaré."_

_"Enchantée, Mademoiselle Carla." Christine smiled, though looking like she was ready to collapse._

_"Pleased to meet you, too, Miss Tanaré. Do you know each other?" Carla asked carefully, watching Roch in a calculating glance. _

_Surprisingly enough, it was Christine who answered, with all the innocence of a giggling child. She was looking at Roch lovingly, "Yes; you could say Little Lotte and Roch-Robbie were childhood sweethearts."_

The words echoed in her head as she wondered aimlessly among the shopping strips. Patisseries, boulangeries, boucharies, they had no meaning to her, really… She just needed a good café. No, she needed a good Starbucks—something American—and now.

_"You'll have to excuse Christine," he had said on the car ride home. "I think she was just too excited and over-exaggerated."_

_"Then what were you two, then?"_

_"Just friends, really." He moved closer to her, "You're the only one for me, now."_

She wanted to believe him. She let him prove it to her later, but, even then, she still couldn't rid herself of that distant, far-off smile when he first looked at her. Just friends, indeed! Her blood boiled at Christine's real interpretation of the events—the blue-eyed girl's face stared up at her from every surface--and her imagination carried her into enraged tears. Childhood sweethearts! How much would linger now that they were reunited?

_Just friends, indeed!_

Still, she composed herself. After all, she was Carla Guindell. She had dealt with costume mishaps. She had released CD after CD. She had put on live concerts in front of millions, not counting those watching online all over the world. She was a star, unafraid to say what she thought and flourishing under the spotlight. She was not about to lose to a chit of a girl who couldn't even remember her own song at a church concert!

Carla took a deep breath, now renewed and reinvigorated. She had been running to calm herself down, but now that was unneeded. She was ready for whatever the 'Songbird de Sorbonne' (as Roch named her) had to throw at her. Except…

_Where the crap am I?_

She bit back a snarl of annoyance at herself. Why did this always happen to her?

"Mademoiselle Carla?"

After the night before, that voice would forever be inscribed in her mind's ear. _Oh God, why hast thou forsaken me? _Instead, she merely turned and greeted her grocery bag-laden rival brightly. "Bonjour, mademoiselle Tanaré."

"Please, call me Christine."

_Why isn't she walking away?_ "How are you today, Christine?" Carla asked, trying hard to bite back the venom that intended to find its way into her overly sweetened voice.

Not that Christine seemed to notice it anyway. "Wonderful. Et vous?"

"Oh. Fine. Thank you." Maybe if she backed away a little, Christine would get the hint… no, no such luck. The clipped answers didn't seem to faze her either. Nonetheless, Carla smiled. "You did well last night, at the concert…"

"Merci!"

"Tell me, who is your voice coach?" _Such an angelic voice technique should not be wasted, after all…_

Christine, surprisingly, giggled outrageously, as if she had asked if turnips fell out of people's ears. "I couldn't possibly tell you that!"

_Ah…_ "You do have one, don't you?"

"In a way," Christine answered, but before Carla could say anything, Christine waved the topic away with a gesture a flick of her wrist. "Why are you…" she paused until she conjured the phrase, "'out and about'?"

"I just wanted a bit of fresh air." Here was an out for her…

"Have you ever been to Paris before?" …and there it went.

However, Carla only grimaced inwardly. "No, no, I haven't."

"Then I must show you around some time."

"I would love that!" Even as she said the words, she felt like she was choking on her sweetened, sarcastic bile. Of course, Christine took her words literally, clapping her hands together, and asking:

"Do you have time now? I just have to put these things—" she motioned to the cloth bags which had fallen into the crook of her elbows, "—up in my apartment."

Surprised, Carla could only muster, "Oh! Well, yes, that would be fine."

"I don't live far from here."

So she wasn't lost after all! Her anger doubled at there, but her new smiling and beckoning tour guide didn't seem to notice. "I suppose you would live near the university, wouldn't you?"

"Er… oui, bien sûr." Christine looked uncomfortable.

Casually, Carla asked, "Have you been with the music program long?"

"Not exactly…" At Carla's surprised look, Christine elaborated with a distant regretful tone, "I haven't been since the lycée."

_High School? _"You have such a sweet little voice, though."

She seemed surprised. "You think so?"

Carla watched her carefully waiting for any excuse to tell her what she really thought. Finding none, of course, she chose her words charily through a clenched jaw… not that Christine would notice, it seemed. "Oh, yes. Everyone was quite taken with it. Roch, too, said you did very well."

"He was?" Christine whispered. As predicted, she took the words at face value and treasured them, smiling largely and almost tearing up with delight.

"He paid more attention to you than anyone else… on the program…" The pause was bitter and ill concealed. Unbidden, the image of Roch's face came to her mind, as he discovered whom exactly it was singing. Shock had come first, she remembered, then a certain fondness and reminiscence, ending with being enraptured. In his world, Carla Guindell was an Atlantic away. Paris belonged to this Christine, so the same was true with his Parisian blood and heart. No matter what she had tried that night, she knew this… _girl_ was in the back of his mind. This could not continue.

Lost in her thoughts, she had ignored Christine's question. The child was pitifully standing in front of her, asking, "Did you hear me?"

"I'm afraid not, no. What did you say?"

"I asked if that was not a lie?"

Ruffled, Carla irritably returned, "Certainly not!" Why would she lie about that, of all things?

"Oh, this is a good day, then!"

"Yes," Carla sighed, tired of walking, tired of talking, tired of her in general. "…very good. Tell me, are you going to be singing at any upcoming concerts?"

"I doubt it…" _At least that's one thing working in my favor. _

"Well, I hope you can be talked into it," Carla replied sweetly. "The stage would suffer if it lost your voice."

She seemed to glow brighter with every comment, as much as it pained Carla to give them. "You are too kind, mademoiselle."

"Not at all. What are you majoring in?"

"Theatre," was the quick response. After a moment, the blonde continued. "Or I will be. I want more than anything to pursue music, but there's not much of a career in that; with theatre, I can write operas or perform."

Encouragingly, Carla decided not to inform her she herself was an artist, instead telling her, "True, true. Music is rather… unpredictable, as far as jobs. I'm sure you would be a wonderful actress, though."

"Still, to sing…" Christine sighed, with a glint shining in her eyes that Carla perfectly understood. How many times had she, as a child, looked into nothingness with that far-off stare when she heard the tinkling of a piano? Jealous as she was, Carla would not rip that away from someone else.

She would, however, help them once they had chosen the opposite course. That was what Christine obviously had done…

"Is this your apartment?" Carla asked, realizing the girl had slowed her pace to muse. Christine looked surprised that she was still there, having been so deeply weaved into her thoughts, though she quickly recovered, and looked about her. She answered negatively, almost immediately: "No, it's over there."

_A hole-in-the-wall. Nice._ "How cute!"

"You're welcome to come up, if you wish."

"Oh, no thank you."

"Très bien. I'll be down in a minute." The girl hurried in with the speed of a Parisian, seasoned by the métro. However, not knowing how long she might take, Carla decided to take in her surroundings. The cerulean dome of the university could be seen over the buildings, though that really meant nothing to Carla. It was close to Notre-Dame, but who knew if she was on the other side, or if it was further away than it looked. She was, to put it in a cliché, a stranger in a strange land. As much as she hated it, she secretly willed Christine to come down quicker. Was it just her, or were those Middle Eastern-French boys glaring at her?

Okay, no. That was just her overly paranoid American fears talking. She had blinked and they were gone… or maybe they never existed.

She swore under her breath, stepping out of the way of two Frenchwomen who she _knew_ existed. Did the girl live on the top level? What was taking so long?

"I was thinking."

Inwardly, Carla screamed at the sudden statement. Inwardly, she wildly tried to control the beating of her own heart and calm her breathing. Inwardly, she forced her feet to lower themselves all the way down to the pavement.

Outwardly, she merely raised an eyebrow to Christine.

"I was thinking you have probably already seen all the major sight-seeing…"

"Oh, I'm quite content to see some more… domestic sights."

"I hardly think you would be excited to see the only skyscraper in Paris!"

_Been there, done that, actually._ It had been one of the first things Roch took her to see, along with la Tour Eiffel. He had said that he wanted her to see Paris as Heaven did, before taking to the smaller, more intricate streets.

"I know!" Christine clapped her hands together in excitement. "Tonight, I shall cook you an exquisite, true French meal!"

"That would be lovely," replied Carla, thinking over her schedule. "And it just so happens that I am free tonight." A white lie, of course, but it was easily changed. She doubted Roch would mind, he had mentioned wanting to go back through the cathedrals—

"Will Roch be free, as well?"

_Oh. Of course._

She couldn't help but frown, "Would you like me to ask him along?"

"Oh, why not! I can cook for two. I will go to the boulangerie to obtain some more things." Underneath that innocent façade, she knew that child was dancing with glee that her oh-so-clever plan had worked. "Do you want me to walk you home? Or perhaps to the nearest métro?"

That concern was sickening now. Carla wanted to get away. "No, thank you, you have been very kind." _Thank God they taught me how to deal with her type in 'public relations!'_ She thought as she laughed softly. "What time would you like us to come?"

"Anytime and I shall be ready."

Carla, as the guest, feigned thoughtfulness. She took pride in this talent. "Seven, we'll say?"

The girl smiled, "Parisian or American time?" She laughed as Carla inwardly cringed, wanting to yell at her that America had different time zones. "That will be fine."

"All right. I—we will see you then."

It turned out that she did live on the top floor. Roch explained—as they walked up the seemingly forever-winding staircase—that 'maid's chambers' were often rented out now. Though they were impossibly small and had no private bathroom, they were cheap, which made them attractive to college students.

Carla didn't seem how they could be attractive to anyone. It was old and unkempt and—was it her imagination?—about to fall apart. Though the walls seemed thick, salsa music blasted out of one near the end of the hall, vibrating the very floor and only enhancing the fact that the hallway seemed to be stitched together.

It also made Carla crave Tex-Mex, but that was fairly normal.

Roch wondered where Christine's apartment was. There weren't any numbers on the door, as one might expect, just a line of three doors in various shades of white. And yet, once they passed the music room, he knew which one was hers. It wasn't because it was the only one left. No, they could have easily gone back and started knocking once this floor was finished. The door looked like it had been haphazardly painted a pure white before the person realized the futility of it; its splotches where the paint might have been just thrown on there randomly now forming clouds and raining white. But above the doorknob—he had almost missed it, in fact—was a small, painted black quarter note with small white wings on either side, sticking out particularly against the faded cream background.

He smiled gently. She might as well have written 'La Chambre de Christine Tanaré' on her door.

Carla had realized easily which door it was (or perhaps she knew by process of elimination) and they headed toward it, though he still hesitated. Carla didn't need to wonder at it long, for he soon turned to her and spoke in a serious voice. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Carla raised a perfect eyebrow quizzically at him and nodded, "Of course I am."

A sinking feeling began to grow in the pit of Roch's stomach; this was bound to be the most awkward evening of his life. "I mean," he ventured. "We can go out. I doubt she would mind, or even notice." His paltry hopes that she would decide to go along with the idea were dashed by a playful frown and a wave of a manicured hand.

"Now Roch, I said we would come. She'll be expecting us."

_Please, for the love of God, don't be stubborn, please oh please oh please… _"But this is your vacation, after all!" Roch pressed. "We should be fine dining, not in a college dorm. I know she'd understand."

Carla stopped walking for a moment and turned to face him. The young man winced at the fierce glare he was receiving, and when she repeated the words, "I _said_ we would come," with an impressive degree of firmness, he could not help but give in. Waving a hand despairingly at Christine's door, now right in front of them, Roch sighed and shook his head.

"…Then, we will go."

Carla moved in front of him, her manila skirt flowing smoothly around her hips. Perfectly oblivious to the crest-fallen expression on her companion's face, she knocked twice on their hostess's door and then stood back a little. In the midst of smoothing a few wrinkles from her blouse, she turned again to Roch; looking at him as if by her gaze alone she might discover whatever secret thoughts he was trying to hide from her. "Are you sure_ you_ want to do this?" She put the question to him now, with delicate syllables that covered perfectly the underlying curiosity and suspicion.

Roch, having adopted his best, most genteel smile for the appearance of his old playmate, nodded at the door. "It's a bit late to close Pandora's box now, isn't it?"

"Yes," Carla replied with a short, mirthless laugh. "A bit late."

At her words, the door swung open to reveal Mademoiselle Tanaré standing on her threshold with a lovely smile that completely outshone the one Roch bore. She had dressed humbly for the evening, though both of them wondered if the hand-sewn blue sundress was the best thing she owned.

In fact, Roch knew it was.

"Welcome!" She greeted them in a cheerful tone. "I'm so glad you could make it. Please, please come in!"

"Thanks for having us." Roch said as they were directed into her apartment.

"Yes, thank you."

Christine smiled again and shook her fair head. "Not at all, not at all, it is my pleasure." She shut the door behind them and gestured apologetically at the interior of her residence. Carla's fears were almost exact when she was confronted with a "maid's chamber." It hardly looked as if the study, dining area, and kitchen were separated by anything but a meager kitchenette. A door shoved in the corner looked like it hid nothing but a closet, and yet that was most likely her bedroom. There was no furniture but a couch, no entertainment but a keyboard… How could this girl live?

She must have seen Carla's critical gaze. "I'm afraid my place isn't much, but if you'll follow me into the kitchen," she ventured. "…I have dinner waiting."

Roch looked up at this, glad to be able to call the twinge in his stomach something other than nerves. "Wonderful! I'm starved."

Christine blushed, meeting his eyes timidly. Carla took no notice, or pretended not to… she was distracted at the moment; a small white cat had appeared seemingly from nowhere and was winding its way through Christine's legs, meowing up at the three humans. Carla eyed the feline with something very close to disdain. She had never been very fond of cats, preferring her pets in the less stubborn form of dogs. Carla frowned at the animal before her and narrowed her eyes, only to have the cheeky Siamese return her expression, unnaturally golden through a furry black mask.

Unaware of Carla's run-in with her furred companion, Christine had stepped into the kitchen with Roch at her heels. Caught up in her slicing, she failed to notice her follower until the silence grew too awkward for him and he voiced a conversational query.

"How is Sorbonne?"

"Hmm?" Christine replied, turning a little to face him while piling a tray with vegetables and cheese. "Oh, it's wonderful, thank you." She smiled graciously.

Roch laughed, "Surely you can give me more details than that! I come all the way from America to hear that Sorbonne is 'wonderful, thank you.' Wasn't it your dream to go there?"

Christine returned his jovialness almost apologetically. "Yes, it was."

There was a brief pause when she did not elaborate as both individuals sought for some other topic of conversation that might lead to a legitimate discussion. Christine blushed and hurried on with preparing her tray, arranging all the different types of foods into their own respective circles. Only when Roch came to peer over her shoulder at the unintentional culinary masterpiece did she look up again. "Interesting," He grinned playfully.

A chill went up Christine's spine as his hand touched her shoulder in an unconscious gesture. She laughed nervously and turned her head to the side so she might look up into his eyes. It was at that moment Carla chose to make her entrance, the Siamese following her as closely as Roch had followed the cat's mistress.

"Such a lovely little pet you have, Christine-" Her words died in her mouth as she beheld the two of them, standing so close… _what business did Roch's hand have on Christine's shoulder?!_

The twosome turned, Christine jumping a little in surprise, and met the singer's suspicious gaze with rather forced smiles. Carla became aware that her mouth was still open, and she closed it with an infuriated snap. This little party was getting a bit too cozy for her taste.

She resolved to keep a closer eye on the two 'old friends' from now on.

Roch lowered his eyes, turning red under her gaze. His mind raced as he attempted to think of something, anything to say to break the silence. The cat had apparently thought of something when the others had not, speaking plaintively from somewhere by his feet.

"When did you get a cat?" He managed; swallowing hard after the question had wrenched itself from his mouth.

"About a year and a half ago." Christine replied politely. Carla glared at her; _how could the little Delilah act so natural, as if nothing's happening?_ She put her own question to their hostess, trying to keep most of the venom from her voice:

"What do you call her?"

Christine smiled at the singer, the very picture of innocence. "Ayesha."

"Sounds foreign." Roch mused, sinking into a chair at the table. Christine—seeing him sit—quickly pulled out a chair for Carla, who lowered herself into it graciously. "So, what's the meal for une etudiante d'université these days?"

Christine only smiled at him and scurried off to the far corner of the kitchen, ducking behind the counters for more plates. He sat alone at the table with Carla, not daring to meet her eyes. Even the stupid cat had followed her mistress.

"She has a nice little place, doesn't she, Roch?"

"I guess," he muttered, casting a worrying glance at the end of the kitchen.

Carla spoke again in a reproachful voice, "You guess? Don't you think so?"

Roch sighed, what did she want? Was he expected to compliment Christine's living quarters, or denounce her humble abode as unstylish and plain? Either way, he decided, Carla was bound to find something wrong with his answer.

"I-I mean, it's… quaint."

Carla seemed satisfied with this response, and sat in smug silence until their hostess returned with the rest of their dinner; pasta, sandwiches, croissants, grapes, apples, cheese slices (fresh from the miniature refrigerator she had obviously stuck in one of the cabinets), and the carefully arranged vegetables Christine had been preparing earlier. "Voilà!" she beamed, proud of the meager plates as she set the food in front of her guests. Drawing up another chair (a folding chair, this time) at the small round table, Christine sat and began passing out napkins. It was a tight fit, and they all had to scoot out and reach in more than what was usual or comfortable.

"This looks wonderful," Roch commented, determined to be polite despite Carla's glare. "Tell me you didn't clean out your fridge just for us!"

"Oh no," Christine reassured him. "It was no trouble at all."

The dining commenced. Christine and Carla conversed merrily, their topics ranging from singing to travel and all manner of diverse subjects… well, mostly singing. Carla revealed her true profession—Roch had been very surprised that she had yet to do that—and Christine could hardly keep still after that. How did she begin? When did she start singing? Who trained her? Who discovered her? Does she write her own songs? What genre? Did she have any, "_oh, quoi le mot"_, connections? It seemed as if Christine was ready to leap up, run down to the Champs-Élysées and into Virgin Megastore, and buy Carla's CDs then and there.

Roch sat in contented silence, watching the two women with a frozen smile. He found it odd that while he enjoyed the company of either one of them individually, being with both of them at once was rather stressful.

Still, Carla had wanted to come… 

He paused in his thoughts, a trace of a frown crossing his face. Why had that been, exactly? Why had she wanted to come here, knowing presumably full well the awkwardness she would be subjecting herself and him to?

Ayesha leapt up onto the table, strutting past Carla with a defiant flick or her tail. The singer seemed about to protest at this rather unsanitary occurrence when Christine intervened, offering the cat a separate glass of water beside her own cola. "Oh, don't mind Ayesha." She laughed as her small companion lapped up a bit out of the glass before moving on to sniff at the other foods.

Carla could not help but 'mind' the cat. Her eyes followed the feline as it made its way around the table twice, nudging a piece of celery here, batting a grape there…

"This…this is good, Christine." Roch said in an effort to break the silence that once again reigned supreme. How did that always happen? He managed a strained smile and added teasingly, "And you were never much of a cook."

"Non," Christine admitted, smiling. "And I am afraid I am still not much of one."

Roch shrugged, taking a bite of the pasta she had brought out to prove his point. "Well, tonight, you have fooled me."

Christine looked down at her lap, positively glowing in his compliments. "Thank you, Roch." She said in a quiet voice. Carla, torn from her cat-watching by the verbal exchange taking place without her, looked up in time to behold Roch smiling fondly at their hostess, who in turn, had just glanced up at him to bask blushingly in his smile.

The singer did not have long to feel jealous.

With a violent bat at a liberated grape, Ayesha sent the small bit of fruit spinning wildly. She pounced, knocking against Carla's glass—which already stood precariously close to the edge of the table—and spilled the remains of her drink onto her newly ironed blouse.

Carla uttered a small shriek and lunged for the glass before it rolled onto the floor. Christine gasped as well and stood hurriedly, the spell broken.

"I'm terribly sorry!" she said in earnest, crossing around the table to her guest. Roch stood as well, an expression of horror on his face. This would be slapstick if it weren't happening to him. As it was… "Are you all right?" He ventured timidly, offering Carla his unused napkin.

"Yes, yes. At least it was just a little water." She grabbed it with a forced laugh.

"Christine," Roch asked. "Do you have a towel?"

His childhood friend bobbed her pretty little head and scurried off to the far end of the kitchen again, rummaging frantically through her cabinets, then, finding none, ran out to presumably the bathroom. Roch turned his gaze back to the soaked Carla; "It's quite a lot for a little water… Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes, Roch." She assured him. "I'm sure; don't be so concerned about it."

"Maybe she'll have a shirt she can loan you. It's going to be cold outside."

Carla frowned at him in the midst of attempting to dry out her blouse with the already sopping napkin. "No, I don't want to bother her for it."

"Carla, you're soaking wet!"

As Christine came dashing back with a large fluffy towel, Carla stood, elbowing her way past Roch. "Thank you, I can see that for myself, Roch!"

Christine pressed the towel into Carla's hands, apologizing again and again. "Do you need anything else? A fresh shirt perhaps?"

Carla glanced at Roch and rolled her eyes, answering Christine in a stubborn voice. "No. Thank you. I'll be fine."

Roch clasped his hands together and came to stand between the two women. "Well, let's not let a good dinner to go to waste for a little water…" He laughed nervously.

Christine returned the laugh with much relief, "Yes, I really am sorry… Ayesha does get a bit carried away sometimes."

_Bloody white rat._

Christine tried her best with the situation. She wrapped Carla up in three towels, so tightly that it took Carla a while to figure out how to eat with them in place, while apologizing profusely again and again. The cat had long disappeared into the closet-bedroom, and it seemed to work wonders for Carla's temperament. Roch tried to engage the two of them in the topic of music, as that seemed to have worked before, though it only succeeded in relieving most of the tension. Perhaps he was keeping the remainder to himself; he wasn't sure. He just wanted out of there, before anything else happened.

It didn't take long. The pasta had almost been finished before the 'incident' and Christine didn't have much more than some tarte aux fraises to serve as dessert. Maybe it was nervousness, or maybe it was her realization of how poor she looked—Roch couldn't decide—but Christine grew more and more agitated as the minutes ticked on. She often glanced down at her small wristwatch, and her smiles grew tighter.

Then, without warning, she stood and began clearing plates away. "I hope you don't mind." She said regretfully as they began to protest, having hardly put down their forks. "There's not much more I can offer you here, and I have much work to do."

"Relax," Roch told her. "We'll help."

"Non!" Carla looked at Roch at Christine's sudden remark. "No. You're guests. I could never ask you to stay and work. Please, go out and enjoy the rest of your night."

This time, it was Carla who spoke. "Mademoiselle…"

"Forgive me!" She cried. "I'm being horrible, please forgive me! I do hope to see you again, very soon, but until then, forgive my haste!"

She seemed anxious enough, so the two, while still affronted at being shoved out, uttered their goodbyes and goodnights. Once the door shut behind them, all they could hear was the clinging and clanging of dishes being quickly washed and cleaned. The noise was quickly overcome, as they exited, by the music that was still floating through the air.

"Does she always act like that?" Carla asked after a few minutes, making sure their hostess couldn't hear.

"Christine is…" Roch stopped, struggling for the words, before he simply shrugged. "Christine."


	3. Troisième Chapitre

**I bet you thought you had seen the last of me, hm? Well, here I am, with the third chapter (and my personal favorite so far.) I don't know when I will be able to update… Chapter Four still needs some more finishing touches, and I want to get Chapter Five before I post that. I think it's best to stay a chapter ahead. Still… I do have AP exams coming up…**

**Now, I also want to say something. I never, in my wildest dreams, thought I'd be begging for reviews… but now I can see why some people do! Please, if you read this, review. It takes so little time and it means the world to me. **

**I'm also wondering if I should change the title to this little fiction. It's not really working for me. Any input would be much appreciated.**

**Now, enough from me—on to the story!**

**-----------------------**

Gone.

_And not a moment too soon, _Christine thought, checking her watch. It was 21:43, two minutes before the music would start… before…

Dishes clattered together as she took them off the table. Tonight was not a disaster, she had decided. Yes, Ayesha—who was now lying innocently in an open cabinet—had gotten a bit rambunctious and embarrassed poor Carla, but that was the only low point. When Roch turned to her, it was as if nothing had changed. When he smiled at her, she no longer felt as if she were nineteen and alone in her own apartment. Under his gaze, she had only eight years and they were running through her house, only to be calmed by a new story from her father or a song they could dance to. Could it be that, after eleven long years of separation, he still felt the same about her?

Christine's heart soared at the thought. She had never been one of those girls who planned their weddings the minute she knew what love was, but now… Roch was the only one whom she could see herself walking down the aisle to.

She beamed up at her cat. "He's come back, Ayesha! He's finally back!" Was the cat smiling? She'd like to think so.

She continued washing the dinner plates, her small feet tripping over each other as she twirled to the strained salsa song coming from the apartment next door. After two years, Christine had memorized their musical schedule: classical in the fading moments of the morning; then "rock 'n' roll" to wake them (as well as everyone else surrounding them); hip-hop said goodbye to her as she began her day, rap welcomed her back; there was always something foreign in the sunset; and, finally, classical and ballads put them to sleep, while it awakened her. At night she was truly alive with music coursing through her veins. _And at night,_ she thought as she grinned fondly, _he came._

She didn't exactly know how it began. A year and a half ago, perhaps… maybe even longer ago. Yet, in her classical ecstasy, a voice called her name. She thought it was a mistake, merely her lonely imagination, but then it came again. It was not part of the song, yet it took on the guise of the artist—an artist whom she had jokingly called Angel, after long months of being unable to find any of his CDs. How was she to know that his voice was actually Heaven sent? Every night in her rapture… he came again.

When did it get so quiet?

The sound of water running seemed to fill the room; suffocating her and hiding any sign of hope or music. Where were the classical notes? When would the angels themselves come down to instruct her soprano?

Frantically, she shut off the water that threatened to drown her. There was no sound in her room anymore, not even from behind her neighbor's walls. It was 21:50 now.

He was never late.

Christine put the last of the plates away. Even their clatter seemed to be muted in some way. When she dried off her hands, she realized she was shaking, almost uncontrollably. He was never late; it was below him. Did he hate her now, after singing in the concert—especially like that—without telling him? She thought she had felt him there, watching over and encouraging her… was she wrong?

"Angel?" She called out slowly. "Angel, are you here—"

Her voice was muffled, deadened even to her own ears now. She felt adrenaline course through her blood, and her fingertips went numb with her small panic attack. What was happening? He was supposed to be here!

Why?!

Humming brushed her ears with a feather-light touch, calming Christine as she attempted to breathe steady once more. It washed over her form and calmed her tremors. It filled the small apartment, wall to wall, with its heavenly sound. All was right in the world.

Christine's eyes fluttered shut to enjoy the private symphony. Tendrils of warmth seemed to wrap around her, gently caressing her face. Her voice seemed to heal upon its own accord, and, as the music embraced her, she whispered, "_Ange!_"

It left her then, leaving her perhaps even colder at her kitchen sink. He seemed to be summoning her from behind her bedroom door. That alone was strange, as his voice had never appeared there. Nonetheless, she moved slowly toward his welcoming lower notes, expertly darting in between furniture as she tried to warm up with him. "Do. Do, re, do. Do, re, mi, re…"

He was gone.

His voice had disappeared.

She stopped, her last note hanging uncertainly in the air, while his voice appeared once more behind her. It was just as low, something he usually did not do, as she was a soprano. Perhaps he wanted her to practice her lower notes tonight, or maybe learn to finally harmonize with him as an equal. No, it was most likely the former, she reflected. To sing with an angel like that would be blasphemous. She should apologize to him for even thinking about it.

Once more, she moved toward his floating melody, now in the center of the living room. He was moving more than he usually did; his song continually shifted from in front of her, to above her, to behind her ears. No matter how hard she tried, she could not catch this elusive angelic tune. And, as she stepped into the center of her den, it moved again.

She whirled around. It seemed the moment she was about to snatch the remnants of the song, it slipped away! The clenched, sinister sound soon reverberated in every corner of the apartment. If the silence hadn't drowned her, this would.

Again, it stopped. His voice moved past her to her keyboard—where their lessons usually took place. The haunting melody was now gone, instead replaced by a simple warm-up that begged to be harmonized with.

Well, she didn't dare disobey her Angel.

It was as if she was in the park with her father again. Music always did that to her, stirring up some memory or some emotion as she reached the top of her range. It was simply she and her father in the park by Centre Pompidou. Each flower arrangement and flower color in the gardens sprang up in her mind's eye as she went through the vocalization exercise. Deep violets, indigos, and greens flew past her eyes as she jumped through the lower notes. Reds, pinks, vibrant yellows, and blinding whites were simply to be admired as she dragged her father through her middle and unearthly higher voice and toward the fountains.

"Oh, Christine…"

She could step without touching the carpet now. No, she was not in her apartment, far above the streets of Paris. She was on a bridge in Centre Pompidou with her Papa and she was desperately trying to see the manmade pool between the bars. Her eyebrows lifted with her higher notes, compensating and allowing her pure voice to soar higher than she had heard before, as Papa reached for his little girl and set her on top of the bar. "Ma pertite chèrie," he had said, as she enjoyed the wind and the mist and the music stroke her cheeks.

Now she knew what having an angel's wings felt like.

Her eyes closed now and she saw the musical notes play before her, dancing in the red and black expanse. Her angel and his music held her now; she would follow him anywhere.

"Christine, what have you done?" somehow reached her ears through the mournful tenor backing, the mist on her face, and the air underneath her wings.

At those words, however, her rapture faded instantly. Though a mystical melody still hummed dolefully around her, she found herself at the kitchenette table, where the dinner glasses still remained, along with random flecks of bread. "What do you mean, angel?"

Christine's hands clamped over her ears as an unearthly, excruciating screech erupted from the bowels of Hell. Her voice unintentionally joined his, but as a shriek after Roch's glass—and only Roch's glass—exploded in front of her, the shards attacking her and sheer power of the outburst causing her to back up into the wall.

She dropped to the floor, immediately trying to rid the floor of the sharp remnants as she gazed at the ceiling. "Angel… I… I-I don't understand…?"

"**_Who is he?_**" came the sinister bellow, as she cowered before him again.

_Roch?_

"H-h-he is an old friend, not-th-thing more," She was trembling, gasping for breath. "We w-were children together!" She tried to stand—only managing a slow kneel—and opened her mouth to protest… yet, there was nothing.

"He no longer has the thoughts of a boy," her angel growled.

She felt winded. "H-how do you know?"

"Your angel can see it in his eyes," he told her. "He is so full of greed, Christine, no longer pure as you once knew him."

No, surely not! Did he mean that, during that entire dinner…? But her angel would not lie to her.

"Greed?" She breathed the word.

"And that girl…"

"Carla?" Christine obediently supplied.

"They are little more than demons—_demons_ that _you_ have invited _into your heart_!"

"Angel!" she cried, shocked at his outbursts. Never before had he acted so!

"For whom did you sing at that concert last night?" The angel demanded.

"Why, for you, of course, Angel…"

There it was, the gentle tone she had known for the past year and a half. "And you were marvelous. The angels themselves wept."

She blushed, bowing her head before him. "Merci."

"Paris will soon be at your feet," he promised her, and it felt like he was standing right in front of her, lifting her chin to meet her gaze. This was her angel… "But you must beware," he went on sorrowfully, "Or the American boy will take it all away from you."

"NON! Roch would _never_—he couldn't!"

"Sometimes I forget you are so innocent, so trusting. If he were like you, there would be no danger."

"What danger is there in singing?"

"He will take your voice."

_Quoi?_

Her hands flew protectively over her throat. "Take it?" She gasped. "What do you mean?"

"He will take it, and then take you from me…" He continued, mournfully. Truly, there were no words to describe the despondency in that heavenly force. The tone alone could have moved her to tears, though the words were much, much worse. "And I will never be able to come back…"

Fear held her heart within its icy, iron grip. Christine swore it had stopped beating, as her jaw dropped and her eyes grew as wide as saucers. "No! Angel, please, I want you to stay with me forever! Do not leave me alone!"

There was only silence.

"Angel!" she cried out pitifully, clawing at the air, as if she hoped to catch the ends of the spectral angel robe before he flitted out of her reach and her life for good. "Angel, non, please stay, I wish you to stay here!"

"As do I," a whisper responded.

"Then what do you want of me?" She begged. "What can I do to keep from losing you?"

"Stay away from him. Both of them." As her angel had ordered, she knew she would obey. "Oh, my Christine, the choice has to be yours," he added wretchedly. She wished to do anything to stop that voice that broke her heart again and again. She thought she would die; his pain was hers. "I cannot interfere outside these walls."

"I…" She paused, swallowing hard. Her angel or her Roch? She would obey. "I will. He means nothing to me."

"Does he?"

"Nothing."

"Comfort yourself: the boy who rescued your scarf is long gone."

_He does see all…_ Exhausted in all ways possible, she pulled herself up onto a chair, having swept the glass off onto the floor beforehand. In the very back of her mind, she noted absently that she would have to sweep. Again.

"You have made me very happy," her angel was the first to speak after a few minutes of silent musing and stifling of tears. He knew she did not want to cry before him. "I just wish it were not so difficult for you."

Swallowing a rather large lump in her throat, Christine simply answered, or, rather, lied. "It is not so difficult."

"I am proud of you."

A wide grin broke over her face. She was radiating happiness again, something she thought she would not do for some time after tonight. Still, her teacher had never told her that!

"You have made the right decision. Staying pure… staying faithful…"

"Will you stay then, Angel?" Christine asked, finding her voice again.

"Forever."

Such comfort could never be found elsewhere, Christine decided. With that word was a promise—an angel's one, at that—that she would never be abandoned, and those syllables rolled away any fears Christine would ever, ever have.

"Now, for your lesson…"

Christine interrupted, "I called for you."

"…Pardon?"

She colored deeply. She could never seem to be able to convey what she wanted correctly! "At the concert," she continued, flushing from head to toe. "After that song I sang in… my lesson voice… I wanted to reach you. I thought you were there, so, I… I called for you."

Was her angel chuckling? "My dear, you didn't need to. I was already there, by your side.

"Perhaps, you would like to perfect that song for your lesson tonight?"

Once the accompaniment began, all of her thoughts ceased to exist. They usually did, of course, once she fell into her ecstasy. Her sharper memories often consisted simply of the first few moments of her lesson, the instances when her exhausted head fell onto the pillow afterwards, full of new knowledge and music, and when she awoke the next morning, happy tears and a radiant smile on her face. She could not describe what would take place during the 'blackouts,' as some would call them. It was simply perfection, rapture, and a voice instructed her in the back of her mind.

God let her perform a concert in Heaven every night, and her personal angel carried her back down to Earth, where she belonged until she could be back up there forever.

At least, that was what Christine often likened it to. In her opinion, her nightly lessons had no rival.

What just happened, though…

Christine rolled over in her bed, burying her head in the pillow and hoping her angel would think she was asleep. He would never be fooled, of course, and he continued singing a lullaby from her doorway. This also happened every night, yet she was almost instantly asleep. Tonight was different.

Tonight, she had lost her best friend all over again.

Christine stifled a sob at the thought, hoping her angel didn't hear. No, she wouldn't let him know how her heart was breaking… She didn't want him to go; she couldn't let him know her mind still drifted to the demon…

Her eyes pinched together so tightly that red fireworks sparked under their lids as she breathed through a strangled yelp.

_Demons!_

Christine believed wholeheartedly in the existence of demons. After all, Jesus defeated demons all the time and the church still employed exorcism. Yes, technology and medicines had made it harder and it was rare to claim possession over epilepsy, but that didn't mean they were erased. To believe in God and angels, Christine had long ago decided, was to fear demons and sin always at her heels.

But_ Roch…_

She had never thought of any harm coming to Roch-Robbie or his family when he left for the States. At first, she had wondered and prayed for his happiness, but then her own family took over her thoughts. "There's no way you could have known," she whispered into the sheets.

_Was it painful?_ She wondered.

_"Little Lotte!" Roch-Robbie called to her, over the waves. "Down here!"_

She remembered that. The two families had gone to Nice and saw the Mediterranean. Four months after he rescued her scarf, but not long before he left…

_"What are you doing?" She squealed._

_"Come, I'll show you!"_

They had just come from the vivid colors of the flower market, and her parents desperately wanted to rest on the benches under the white-painted canopies. The two of them, however, could not be kept from the pebble shore only a staircase down. Even Philippe could not be kept away, though he soon turned away from their antics to find some people his own age.

_There were several families on the beach and in the restaurants, but the two were in a world of their own. "No, no, throw it underhand! Like this!" The pebble miraculously skipped twice in the water before being lost in the waves._

_Christine screwed her face up in concentration and imitated him as best she could… The rock soared before her outstretched hand and she shaded her eyes from the sun so she could follow its stunning descent._

_He only laughed as it barely went a meter before it plunked harmlessly into the blue. What he didn't notice was Christine's squeals before it was too late; and a large wave crashed into him, soaking his legs and feet to the bone. _

_Now it was her turn to laugh. _

Christine remembered that day perfectly. The waves that day seemed set on soaking them both, and it had become a game between them and the sea. They had lost. However, it hardly mattered, and she had practiced skipping rocks with him until the sun was setting over the water. Christine had never been able to skip one successfully, so she instead simply threw them and pretended. Neither of their parents had been hardly pleased to spend their day that way.

Her wandering mind took her back, as she knew it would for the next few days, to her angel's information and her subsequent promise. Morbidly, she wondered how he had died. When was it? Why Roch?

She had a sudden vision of him—as she last saw him, innocent and young—strapped in his airplane as the world exploded around him. _Did he crash in the water? _She asked herself as she pictured the water surrounding the exterior and flooding the interior. Fire and water intermixed as up became down in the whirlpool, and the crazed flight attendants didn't notice a little boy trapped in his seat, screaming for help but only giving up precious air in bubbles like the waves of the Mediterranean…

_**NON!**_

Christine uncovered her mouth and howled in pain until her voice cracked. "Why did he have to die?"

_Why, oh merciful God, did you bring him back only to take him away from me again?_

Her pain came back tenfold as she buried her face into her pillow again and simply sobbed. A demon to come and steal what was most precious to her—all that was precious to her: her Roch-Robbie, her voice, her angel—and it had come to taunt her in her childhood friend's body! _C'était trop cruel!_

The angel's lullaby came through her bedroom door and sat near her head. Although she couldn't see anything in the pitch black of the room, it was comforting to know he was there. She could almost _feel_ his physical presence at her bedside, kneeling on the floor, almost as a parent would. It was as if he understood her turmoil and her tears, regardless of her promise.

His renewed lullaby brought more comfort than anything else in the world could, and she drifted off almost immediately. _I'm sorry I never told you,_ was her last thought of the night.

_I love you, Roch-Robbie…_


End file.
